"Hark you, Mime!" he cried. "Give me the stout blade you promised, or it will not go well with you to-morrow night."
"You would not harm your father!" whined the dwarf. "Remember how I have cared for you and sheltered you."
"I have long since paid that score in meat and skins," answered Siegfried. "And as for you being my father, you know that is false. Answer me directly! I would know who my father was!"
His manner was so threatening that the dwarf was thoroughly frightened.
"I—I—do not know who your father was," he stammered; "your mother was Sieglinde, a poor woman whom I sheltered here when you were a baby. She gave me an old broken sword. See, here it is!"
And he rummaged beneath a pile of skins and brought to light the pieces of the magic Sword of Need.
"Ha! that is good metal!" cried Siegfried, as he examined it. "I will have no sword but this. See to it that 'tis mended for me 'gainst another night."
The smith promised, though in a quaking voice, for he was by no means certain that he could mend the weapon. His fears were well founded. When he tried to do so, the next day, the pieces refused to unite in his hands. After making repeated attempts he sank down behind the anvil in despair.
At this moment a strange-looking man entered the doorway. He was tall and powerful. He wore a long dark cloak, and carried a spear instead of a staff. On his head was a large hat whose broad brim shaded one eye that was evidently injured or missing.
"The Wanderer!" muttered the dwarf in abject fear.